DIVORCE
by depplosion
Summary: The events of before, during and after the divorce, from Mort's POV. Some plot, though mostly Mort's personal angsting and emo-ing.


iWait a minute.../i

The man sitting at the computer stopped moving for a moment and just sat, perfectly still, thinking.

iSomething isn't right.../i

He turned his face upward toward the computer screen. It wasn't in the right place. He clicked out a few quick experimental sentences on the keyboard without looking at his hands. He typed at his usual speed in his usual posturehis fingers bent at the knuckles, his thumbs poised just about the space bar, the heels of his hands resting on his deskbut his fingers tripped and stumbled over the little lettered squares, producing more errors in the text than usual.

"What the..."

He flexed his fingers and furrowed his brow at them. They felt fine. He squinted his eyes at the keyboard, in search of anything that may be out of whack but everything appeared to be normal. Then, like a bolt from the blue, it hit him.

Somebody had been fiddling with his chair. -His- chair. His leather desk chair with an adjustable back and height. It was taller, and he hadn't touched it.

"Amy?" Morton Rainey yelled, hoping his voice would carry through the giant Victorian house and to his wife's ears, wherever she was.

"You say something, Mort?" she called from about three rooms down the hall.

"Could you just come here for a second?" He got up off of the chair, dropped to one knee and began frownfully inspecting its underside, looking for some kind of adjustment lever and finding none.

"Be right there."

He didn't intend to scold her, to raise his voice or even make an issue out of it. In fact, he knew it could have easily just been left alone. It wasn't a big dealit was just a chair. A small difference in height, that's all it was. He knew how to fix it, but somehow he didn't think it would be right to do so until he'd gotten his point across, and that was that he didn't like other peoplenot even hermessing with his things.

She entered the room quietly enough that Mort would not have noticed her were he not staring at the doorway, waiting for her.

"Amy," he said, his voice calm and even.

"Yeah, Mort?"

He thought for a moment, trying to come up with a way to do this without freaking out on herhe didn't want to freak out on herand finding it more difficult than perhaps was usual. He found himself nearing the end of his rope, and he was disturbed to not have a clear reason for that.

"You messed with my chair, didn't you?"

Shit. He hadn't meant it to sound like an accusation, but there it was.

"What?" she looked slightly stricken, like he'd just accused her of murder or something.

"My chair," he explained, his face still the very picture of patience, with a voice to match. "It's...higher than before," he said, gesturing upwards with his hands. "Somebody adjusted it to be higher up than usual, and I don't like it that way. Makes it hard for me to type. See?" he pointed to the nonsensical paragraph on the glowing screen for emphasis.

"It must have been the maid, honey. She must have moved it while she was cleaning"

"You know Barbara doesn't clean in here, Amy."

"I know. I have eyes; I can see the mess, all around me."

Mort gave her a look to inform her that she was crossing over into dangerous territory, and that she should stay where she stood, unstable ground as it was. He really didn't want to blow this out of proportion, but if that's the road she was going to take...

"I didn't do it. Why would I mess with your chair?"

"Maybe you wanted to check something on the computer."

"I have my -own- computer, Mort. You know I never come in here, not without you here."

Mort didn't know that, not for sure, but he supposed there would be no harm in agreeing with her.

"And I'm sure she didn't do it, on purpose. I mean, you turn those things around just a couple times and they get shorter or taller; that's just the way they're built."

iSo -that's- how it works.../i Mort thought to himself. He'd never actually adjusted it, or maybe he had, and it had slipped his mind that the way Amy had just described was the way it was done. In any case, he hadn't needed to adjust it in a long time.

"Or it could have been Chico; he might have just bumped it"

"So you didn't do it, is that what you're saying?" Mort cut her off, growing tired of her endless explaination and just wanting her to shut up, already. But then Amy always said a mouthful more than was necessary.

"Yes, Mort," Amy replied, looking somewhat perplexed and wondering just what time her husband had gotten to sleep, last night. She'd awaken in the morning to an empty space, beside heragainso if Mort -had- gone to sleep, she hadn't known about it. "That's exactly what I'm saying."

"Ok," he said, turning back to the computer screen and highlighting the nonsense he'd just written with the mouse. "All I wanted to know."

Deleted.

"Mort...are you...feeling ok? You seem kind of stressed."

"Yeah, well...you know..." he made a few unhelpful gesticulations with his hands and shrugged.

iYou don't get enough sleep./i iAll you ever do is sit in front of this damned thing, day in, day out./i iWhen's it gonna end, Mort? When will you overcome this obsession/i

"I'll be fine."

He wheeled his chair a few inches to the right and opened the bottom drawer in his desk. As Amy turned to leave he began rifling through it, searching, almost desperately for the pack of cigarettes he knew to be in there, somewhere.

"At least I would be..." He dug around summore, opening the other drawers in his desk, shuffling through loose papers and moving various office supplies aside as he searched, "...if I could find my goddamn cigarettes."

He knew she disapproved of his smoking habit. He knew she really wanted him to quitshe'd mentioned it to him, several times. He knew she didn't like the smell...but he'd always smoked in -that- room, out of the entire twenty four, and always with the door shut.

"Amy!" he heard himself yell before he'd even made up his mind to call her back.

Mort buried his head deep into the generously stuffed feather pillow and sighed. He buried it as deep as it would go and wondered how long it would take for him to stop breathing. He hadn't meant for it to turn into such a row, but it hadit always did. He should have known better to make two accusations in a row. He should have known not to make any, at all. He should have thought more carefully about what he'd done with those last few cigarettes. Yes, there'd been a pack at the top of the drawer. Yes, he could have sworn he'd had at least one left. No, he hadn't really thought about it long enough to be certain, and that had turned out to be a big mistake.

They were fighting so often, lately, about stupid shit that really didn't matter and could have easily been avoided if one or both parties had just kept their mouths shut and turned the other way. But that's the way it usually works with warring couples; the disputes are often so easily prevented, but that simple fact isn't realised until it's too late. And somehow, even though new and useful knowledge has seemingly been attained, the same mistake is repeated over and over again. Mort just didn't understand it.

"Humans are such stupid fuckers," he muttered as he forced himself to sleep.

Mort woke up stiff and sore. Another night alone on the couch had done that to him. Well, it wasn't exactly the couch's fault.

iIt's your own fault you can't move your neck without it hurting, you stupid bastard./i

What time was it? He turned his wrist and saw that it was well past noon.

"Shit," he cursed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and trying to wake up. For a split second the smell of breakfast caught in his nostrils. Bacon, eggs, sausage, pancakes, the works. It was all there...except it wasn't; it had all been a figment of his imaginationwishful thinking on the part of his hungry stomach.

Big country breakfast or no, Mort decided to go down to the kitchen to see what he could scrounge up. He hadn't been down there for more than coffee in what seemed like ages, and probably was.

"Coffee sounds like a good idea," he said to himself as he walked down the stairs to the kitchen. To his surprise, Amy was already there, sitting at the table and reading the paper. No, doing a crossword puzzle.

"Morning Amy," he said, having almost forgotten about their little spat. He was reminded by the silence he got in response. "Oh, c'mon, don't tell me you haven't cooled off, yet."

Still nothing.

"Look, Amy," he said, putting both hands down across the table from her and leaning over it.

"No, you look, Mort," she said, peering up at him over the top of her newspaper. There was something strange in her eyes, something Mort had only seen there a few times before. He didn't like it. He didn't like it, at all.

"You want an apology? I was going to give it to you, anyway, but I guess nothing's fast enough for you"

She sighed sharply and rolled her eyes, signifying that whatever she had been about to say was going to remain un-said. It had been replaced by something far crueller, something accompanied by daggers in her eyes.

"Don't you have writing to do?"

Mort felt as though he'd just been dealt a swift blow to the chest, and in a way, he had, and for a minute or two he could not speak. He only stood there, hunched over the table, head down, shaggy blonde hair hanging in his face and hiding the shock and hurt there.

After a moment he nodded, very slowly, not sure if Amy was even looking at him, anymore. She'd probably gone back to her crossword puzzle.

"Yes, Amy," he said, so quietly he could barely even hear himself. "Yes, I do, now you mention it."

When Mort looked up, Amy's face was buried in the newspaper, again, her pen scribbling away on the black and white pages as she completely ignored him.

Mort walked away and up the stairs to his study, coffee forgotten.

It wasn't what she'd said that bothered himit was -how- she had said it. There had been a lot of raw emotion in those few short words, each of them bitten off, agrily. And her eyes...

There was little to no communication between them, anymore. In fact, there was barely -anything- between them, except a lot of harsh words and hollow insults, and yards and yards of blanket. Mort used to be able to measure the space between them with the fingernail of his pinkie. What had happened? What had gone so horribly wrong?

iIt's your fault./i iYou ignore her, constantly./i iAll you ever do is write./i

"I'm a -writer-," he said to himself. "It's what I'm -supposed- to do."

iYou're also a husband. Doesn't that count for something, too/i

Mort begged the voice that came from deep inside his head to go away and leave him alone. It made him angry, so angry...mostly because he knew it was right.  
But it wasn't -all- his fault. Surely there was something that Amy was doing wrong, too. After all, it takes two, as the old saying goes.

He knew there was something wrong with him. He'd been stressing about this story. Something just wasn't right, and he didn't know how to fix it, and now, trying to do so had gotten in the way of his marriage and was trying to rip it apart. Well, he wouldn't let that happen. His muse had always been a jealous mistress, but this was going too far. He was going to talk to Amy. Mort knew what was wrong with him; now it was time to find out what was wrong with Amy.

He'd followed them as far as the parking lot, making sure to keep his distance by staying clear on the other end of the lot and trying to remain out of sight. It was dark; he had that going for him, at least. But he was sure that Amy would recognize his car if she saw it, and he didn't want to be caught. He stayed parked around the corner of the motel, his windsheild wipers swiping over the wet glass in a steady rhythm as the snow flakes around his car gradually became bigger and heavier. It was well after ten. Was he going to sit in that parking lot, forever?

No. He was going home. This was fucking ridiculous.

He put the car in drive and headed for the road, ahead. But then something stopped him, and he slammed on the brake as though there had been something obstructing his path. There was...just nothing physical, but that didn't mean it was any less effective.

iDon't go back there/i the voice in his head said, almost begging him to just ease off the brake, put the car in gear and leave and never look back.

iDo -not- go back there/i it said again, this time much more sternly. But Mort could not resist. It wasn't just under his skin, was eating him alive from the inside out. He -had- to know.

He put the car in reverse and screeched back into the driveway, its wheels skidding to a stop on the icy pavement. Having parked the car very half-assedly, he got out of the car, its engine still running, and walked into the motel's lobby. There was a rack of maid's keys hanging behind the front desk, which was unattended. In fact there didn't appear to be anyone around, at all. Mort took one last look over his shoulder before helping himself to the key with the number that matched the door he'd seen them disappear into nearly three hours ago.

He didn't even hear the manager of the motel shouting after him as he walked briskly back to his car, got in and drove right up to the motel door. Christ, was he really going to do this? No time to think. No time to second-guess himself. He simply -had- to know.

Shaking with fear and adrenaline moreso than from the cold, he placed the key in the doorknob which wore a 'Do Not Disturb' sign around its neck and swallowed hard. He turned the key, the door opened, and his worst nightmare was confirmed.

Mort felt his bowels curl into a tight, nearly painful knot as he sat in the uncomfortable office chair in the middle of the small room. He wanted to go home. He wanted to walk into the bathroom with a good book or magazine, sit down on the toilet and stay there for a good hour or two. But he couldn't, because home wasn't where it used to be. Home was at least an hour and a half drive away, up at Tashmore Lake. Suffice it to say, it looked like he'd have to resort for the far less comfortable, not to mention public facilities of the councellor's office. Maybe they'd let him have a copy of the divorce papers to wipe his ass with.

She was divorcing him. She was divorcing him and all he could think about was going home and taking a nice long shit. The thought was far more pleasant than what the bitch behind the desk was saying, anyway, and Mort was tired of being miserable. Even the cramp in his lower abdomen was a welcome distraction.

He tilted his head back and looked up at the blindingly white ceiling and began counting the panels. This was a nightmare. He wasn't sure if he was more bored or more depressed. And that bastard, Ted, was in just the other room, probably with his ear pressed against the fucking door. Goddamn brown-noser, always sticking his...his various body parts into other peoples' business. Stupid asshole was lucky the gun hadn't been loaded, that night, because if it had, Mort wasn't sure he would have been able to stop himself from shooting the fucker right between the eyes. It was an ugly thought, but seeing your wife in bed with another man brings up all kinds of those.

iYou'd better get used to these ugly thoughts, buddy/i the voice in the back of his head said in that almost-taunting way it had. iThey're gonna be with you for a loooong time./i

"Fuck you," Mort said, aloud, not caring at all what kind of looks he received from the others present in the room, because he could just have easily been talking to any of them.

"No," he said, gripping the phone tighter so that his knuckles blanched and his palms began to sweat. "I really don't think that's necessary."

The voice on the other end of the line argued that she really thought it was; that he was really beginning to scare her and that she didn't want to leave him all alone up there.

"Didn't want to leave me alone? I guess you should have thought of that before you divorced me."

There was an awkward silence in which Mort bit back tears. It somehow didn't matter that she couldn't see them, even should one escape down his cheek. He took a deep breath and let it out, sharply.

"What do you think I'm going to do, Amy? Kill myself? Pfft," he made a noise of dismissal (although, admittedly, he -had- thought about it) and flung himself back down onto the couch. "Sorry, but no. I don't need you to look after me, Amy. I'll be fine."

But she was worried about him.

"Well, I guess that's your perogative, but privacy is mine and if I don't want you up here"

Would it really be that big of a deal if she just came up there for a little while, just to talk to him? They'd never really gotten the chance to talk things over, and now that things were beginning to cool down, again

"What, you want to heat them right back up? Christ, Amy...Fine. You know what? Fine. But as soon as it starts to turn ugly, I want you gone. You hear me? Gone."

That would be fine; all she wanted to do was see for herself that he was all right. She would be leaving in a few minutes, so he should expect her around six.

"Good bye, Mort."

Mort sighed and exhaled, slowly. No reason to get all worked up about this.

"Bye, Amy. I..."

(ilove you/i)

"...I'll see you, then."

Mort hung the phone up and sat there on the edge of the couch with his head in his hands. He would really have to remember to stop ending their phone conversations with "I love you," even though he still did. It didn't matter. She didn't love him. He didn't know if it had been a gradual thing, or something sudden, like the watch that suddenly stops ticking. Should he ask her? She was, after all, coming up there to talk to him, probably about things like that. He had a lot of questions...but he was somehow afraid to ask them. Afraid of what she might say. Afraid...

Mort lifted his head and peeped through his parted fingers at the messy living room, around him.

"Shit," he groaned, painfully aware that the mess extended well into the kitchen, up the stairs and into his study. Only the bedroom, bathroom and dining area remained some semblance of tidy. He hadn't even realized it, but now that he did, he knew something would have to be done about it, and fast.

He started with the living room, picking up the crumpled bits of paper that lay strewn across the floor and under the coffee tablean entirely different story. Papers lay crumpled on its surface, along with at least a week's worth of dirty dishes; cereal bowls, plates with half-eaten peanut butter sandwiches on them, empty bags of Doritos and bowls of soup that had scarce been touched. Mort stared at an orange lump of something floating in one of the aforementioned bowls and grimaced. He was pretty sure that wasn't a carrot. This food wasn't even suitable for Chico, his twelve-year old dog with cataracts who would have surely eaten Mort's discarded left-overs, had they been even slightly edible.

Mort's mission soon became like all things in his life lately; hopeless. He was never going to get the place cleaned up in the hour and a half that it took to drive up to Tashmore Lake, but he had to at least try. Part of him wanted Amy to see the filth he'd been living in, just to make her feel guilty. Mort had always been disorganized, at best...but this was just ridiculous. He was so lazy it would have made Homer Simpson hang his head in shame. The smallest task took too much effort, and so it was left undone. The way he saw it, there was no reason for him to keep things neat anymore. He was by himself (aside from the dog, who really couldn't give a rat's ass about more than getting fed and let outside, every day) and simply could not be bothered to clean up after himself.

Mort was taking out the trash (all six Hefty bags worth) when he heard Amy's car pull up in the front drive. He threw the bags into the trash bin, slammed the lid down and caught a whiff of his under-arm odour. Well, he stunk to high-heaven, but at least the cabin was clean(er). It's not like Amy would be getting close enough to him for her to mind.

"Mort?" her heard her call as she poked her head through the front door.

"I'm here, Amy," he said, shuffling back inside and brushing snow flakes from his shoulders. It wasn't snowing very hard, just enough to dust everything with a thin coat of shimmering white. Mort used to think it was beautiful, and his creative mind could come up with all sorts of pretty words to describe winter at Tashmore Lake. Now, the best description he could manage was "cold and wet."

Amy squinted her eyes at him and gave him a confused look. Mort wondered if perhaps he'd forgotten to zip his fly, but then she spoke.

"...isn't that my bathrobe?"

Mort looked down at the tattered bathrobe he never seemed to take off and shook his head. "No. It never was. I bought it for myself about six years ago, and you were the one that stole it from me. I never really minded much, but I guess one good thing that came out of this is now I have it back, for good." He gave her a sad smile and gestured for her to have a seat.

Amy took a look around the place, which was, despite Mort's best efforts, still a bit of a mess. "What happened, Mort," she said, and he wasn't exactly sure what she was talking about, or if she expected an answer. "It used to be so clean."

"Yeah, well...men are messy. Leave us to our own reserves and we'll mess anything up." He gave her a look and wondered if she'd found that out about Ted yet, but before he could ask, she spoke again.

"We should get you a housekeeper or something."

"Um, I really don't need some Mrs. Doubtfire-type old broad coming to clean my house, thanks."

"She'd be in just about once a week, or so. Like Barbara."

"You know I didn't like her, Amy."

"I didn't say her, specifically. Just the same situation. I would pay for her, if you want."

"I don't need your charity"

(iI need your love./i)

"I know, Mort, but if I don't pay for her, no one will."

Mort sighed. He knew Amy was right, and he supposed a housekeeper coming over once a week wouldn't be so bad...

"I dunno. I'll think about it. In the meantime, you didn't come all the way up hear to talk about housekeepers, did you, Amy?"

"No. No, I didn't."

She took out a folder from her shoulder bag and set it down on the coffee table. The folder was blank but he could see that it contained a sheaf of papers that was all too familiar to him.

"You have to sign these, Mort."

The snow had been accumulating on the roads, making them slippery and decreasing visibility, but the former Mr. and Mrs. Rainey hadn't noticed. They'd been too busy arguing, spewing accusations at eachother, apologizing, and doing it all over again.

Mort was tired. He wanted to go to sleep. Amy was wearing him out and he didn't know how much more of it he'd be able to take. When would they be done with this? Would they -ever- be done? What was the point of all this? Why did she have to go and fuck that jerk, in the first place?

Yes, he knew he needed to sign the divorce papers in order for it to be final...but he couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to do it, and when Amy asked why, he replied, "It would be too much like signing my own death warrant." He hadn't meant to say it, but he'd said what he meant, though his voice was wavering and tears prickled at the back of his eyes. But he swallowed them for the second time that day, because now there was no phone to hide behind. Now she was standing not three feet in front of him, and the last thing he wanted to do was cry.

iWhy did I have to marry a writer/i Amy asked herself, mentally rolling her eyes at her ex's flair for dramatics. She didn't know how to respond to that, for though it had been very dramatic, it wasn't contrived; raw emotion poured from every syllable, and she felt tears beginning to well up in her eyes. Tears of pity, guilt, regret and anger. She didn't want to deal with this, any more. It was too painful. Didn't Mort feel the same?

"Listen, Mort..." Her words were empty, and she didn't really know where she was going with them. She bit her lip and looked away from him.

"I should go."

Mort wanted to scream and cry and protest. He wanted to pin her down onto the couch and kiss her. He ached to touch her. He'd been touching her for the past ten years and now that he was no longer allowed to, even being in the same room with her made him feel physically uncomfortable. His longing for her greatly surpassed the resentment and anger and hurt that he'd been harbouring inside himself. He just wanted to...

"Yeah, I guess you should," he said softly, scratching an itch on the back of his head and looking down at her feet.

They exchanged breif (non-physical) farewells and then she walked out the door. Mort watched her through a white flurry of snow as she walked down the drive to where her car was parked, got inside, and...

Mort's heart leapt up into his throat when she re-appeared and started walking back up the driveway to his front door. Had she forgotten something? Mort gave the room behind him a quick once-over and frowned. It didn't appear that she had.

But wait.

...the snow.

"I'm sorry, Mort," she said, panting as though she'd just run a marathon. "I didn't realise it until I got behind the wheel, but I really wouldn't feel safe driving in this stuff."

Mort had to purse his lips in order to stop the huge grin that threatened to spread across his face. Part of him had been relieved that she was finally leaving. With her gone, he could get that sleep he so thirsted for. But now that she -wasn't- leaving...

Mort looked at his wrist watch. Ten thirty, all ready. iWow. Time flies when you're fighting with your ex-wife/i he thought.

"I'm afraid I...might have to spend the night."

She didn't like it. The words coming from her mouth sounded distant and alien. iSpend the night, are you crazy/i But there was nothing for it. It was either that or risk getting into an accident on one of the many curving roads that lead from the cabin back to Riverdale. As much as she wanted to leave, as uncomfortable as she was, she would rather risk an evening alone with Mort than have to drive for two hours in a snow storm.

This time Mort had to bite his lip to stop the smile from breaking loose. It was a funny feeling, and he wasn't sure why he felt like he did, but he was suddenly so happy that he could have done a dance. But he didn't. He simply nodded his head at her, slowly, as though she'd just asked him a question he was pretty sure he knew the answer to, but maybe not right off the bat.

"Oh..." he said, trying act as un-enthusiastic as possible. "Well...I guess. I mean, I certainly don't want you driving if you don't feel comfortable..."

"I really wouldn't," she said, taking off her coat and hanging it on a hook next to the door.

Mort was really having difficulty containing himself. Finally, his efforts to hide the happiness that had just come right up and bitten him on the ass were useless.

Smiling brightly to himself, he practically bounced into the kitchen, calling cheerily over his shoulder, "Do you want some hot chocolate?"

"Shit!" Mort yelped as a few droplets of hot water splashed onto him from the swinging tea kettle. His hands were shaking with anxiety and he was having difficulty operating correctly. He'd nearly dropped the mugs when he'd gotten them out of the cupboard, and now he'd just spilled boiling water down his front. But it didn't matter. He took a towel from a drawer and simply wiped himself off. There, no harm done.

"Deep breaths, Mort," he told himself, inhaling slowly through his nostrils and releasing the air through his lips.

He couldn't help but think that perhaps this was just the situation that was needed for him to get his second chance. Why not? This kind of thing happens to people, all the time. It's not unheard of for newly divorced couples to reconcile their differences and get back together...right?

Mort hoped so. He didn't want to get himself all worked up, but it was too late for that. He was trying to think positively. He still loved her...maybe she felt the same.

You could have fit a full-grown African bull elephant between them as they sat on the couch, sipping their hot beverages quietly and throwing nervous glances at one another. What to do? What to say? Was she tired? Did she want to talk more? Mort wished she would throw him a bone, so to speak, but she just sat there, her mug cupped tightly in her small hands as she held it against her chest. She certainly wasn't going to move, and the only one left to do so was Mort.

iOh well. What the heck/i

He sighed and scooted unnoticably closer to Amy, who sat pressed up against the opposite arm of the couch, her legs crossed away from Mort, her back rigid. This was not going to be easy, but he had to do -something-. He couldn't keep up this distance between them. It hurt too much. He felt like someone was stepping on his chest with a big heavy boot. If he wanted to breathe, he'd have to break the ice.

"Amy?" he said quietly, his mouth dry as cotton. She peered at him over the top of her steamy mug but didn't shift positions.

"Hm?" she made a noise, indicating that he should continue.

"I..." he looked down at the three feet or so of empty couch that separated them with sadness in his eyes and wondered if perhaps he should just let it go. Bring her a blanket, a pillow, and go to bed. In seperate rooms.

"I know our break-up wasn't exactly..." what was the word? "...amicable, but have you ever considered...did you ever want to..." He was dumbfounded. He was supposed to be a writer, wasn't he? Why wouldn't the words come to him?

"Be friends, Mort?" she offered, taking another small sip of hot cocoa.

Mort swallowed and nodded. "Yeah."

"I would love to be," she said, uncrossing her legs and putting her mug on top of the coffee table. "But you have to let me, Mort. These things can't just happen. You have to let it go."

"Let it go? Let it go?" His voice became high and screechy with anger that had been walled up for too long. Let it go? What a ridiculous notion. "Amy, you"

(iripped my heart out, threw it against the wall, kicked it out the door and left it to rot in the cold, you cheating, back-stabbing, heartless bitch/i)

No. He didn't want to start this up, not again. He didn't have the energy, and from the looks of things, neither did she.

He took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his tangled hair.

"I need time," he said calmly, looking down at the floor. "It's only been two months since the divorce. I need more time to get over it."

There was a moment of pregnant silence until Amy reached out her hand, placed it gently on Mort's knee and said, "Okay."

Mort sat on the edge of the couch, biting his lip and thinking of what to say next as Amy lightly caressed his knee with her thumb. He'd missed her soft touch. He wanted more of it.

"Amy..." he began again, praying for the courage to continue.

iC'mon, Mort. You've known this woman for over ten years. You used to be able to say anything to her. What makes this any different/i

"Do you...have any feelings left for me? Any, at all?" He brought his face up to meet her gaze and saw that she was smiling. But the smile did not reach her eyes, and he could tell that it was only a polite gesture.

"I can't say that I do, Mort. I care for you...you're a good person, but... I'm sorry..."

His face fell and he felt a lump rise up in his throat. His hope had been dashed to pieces by that short, simple sentence. Why had he let himself get so excited? Who was he fooling, anyway? They were divorced. Finished. No more. But then why did his feelings for her linger, while hers had blown away?

"I would really like to be friends with you, though," she said, as though to offer some small consolation. It broke her heart to see the pain in her ex-husband's face, but she couldn't bring herself to lie to him. After all that had happened, the man at least deserved to hear the truth.

Mort stared blankly at the rug beneath his bare feet and nodded.

"We'd better get some sleep, huh?" he said finally, his voice hoarse and hollow.

"Yeah," she agreed, removing her hand from his knee and placing it in her own lap.

"I'll go get you some blankets," he said before disappearing up the stairs and into the bedroom that they used to share.

Amy was tired, and the couch was comfortable enough, but her eyes refused to close more than half-way, and in her mind all she could see was Mort's crestfallen face when she told him she no longer felt love for him. Was it true? Did she really not love him at all? No, it wasn't. She still harboured some shred of romantic love for her ex, and he would never really leave the small space at the bottom of her heart that she kept for him, but she couldn't tell him that. She couldn't give him hope where there was none. She was with Ted, now. She'd made her decision, and Mort would just have to respect that. Her new life with her new love was going very well, despite Mort's refusal to remove himself from it. She more than understood that it was hard for Mort to accept what had happened, and move on, but she really wished he'd get on with it, all ready. Why did he insist on torturing himself...and her?

Amy was confused. She was decently sure of herself, most of the time, but when it came to this, she was confused and unsure. She didn't know what to do, but one thing that she did know was that she could no longer stand to lay dormant on the couch while her brain was so active.

Mort couldn't sleep. He tossed and turned from side to side and when he could no longer stand it he lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling, wondering what he should do. Of course, he didn't -have- to do something; he could just lay there and wait for the cows to come home, but the lack of activity was making him antsy, and he decided that he had to get out of bed and do -something-. Anything. Anything at all to get his mind off of...

"Amy!" he gasped suddenly, startled out of his staring contest with the blackness by her shadow falling over him.

"Sorry for scaring you, Mort," she whispered from where she stood in the doorway. "I...I couldn't sleep. You know how I can't sleep when I feel like something's wrong between us. I can't"

"End things on a sour note," he finished for her. "I know."

Mort sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes with a terry-cloth sleeve of his bathrobe. "Come in, Amy."

"Mort! MORT!" Was that Amy? Was she screaming at him? Why?

He awoke to Amy screaming his name and her fist colliding with his sweaty face. Awoke? But he was standing! He was pressed into Amy, whose back was against the wall. Tears were streaming down her pretty cheeks and her face was twisted into a kind of frightened grimace.

iDon't cry, Amy. It's okay.../i

"Get off of me!" she shrieked and shoved him sharply backward, sending him tumbling onto the hard surface of the floor. His head smacked against the bed and he felt a throbbing red pain behind his eyes.

He blinked his eyes and shook his head as if to clear it. Had Amy just punched him in the face? Why was he suddenly on the floor?

"Amy...?" he heard himself whisper, but she hadn't seemed to hear him.

"Mort? Mort, are you all right?"

He saw her hovering above him, her face etched with concern and blurred by the tears of pain and confusion welling up in Mort's eyes.

"Amy, what's going on?" he muttered before everything went black.

Mort bit his lip and held the icepack firmly to the back of his head where a nasty bump was beginning to form.

"So...-you- leaned in to kiss -me-..." Mort said, trying to get straight what Amy had just told him, "...and then I forced myself upon you, tried to rip your shirt off and said that I would kill you if you didn't let me fuck you...?"

Amy nodded, solemly. "That's a direct quote. And you said it in a sort of accent. Like...like Ted's accent, only stronger. I don't think I'll ever forget what you said, Mort." She looked as though she were about to start crying, again.

"But I -didn't- say that, Amy. That's what I'm trying to tell you."

"But I heard you, Mort. I felt your breath on my face when you said those exact words to me. You had your hand around my neck and you were trying to choke me."

"Have I ever laid an ill finger on you, Amy? -Ever-? Even when I saw you with Ted" He felt an unpleasant lump rise up in his throat at the mention of his ex-wife and her new lover. Those images haunted him in his sleep, and he hadn't meant to or wanted to remind himself. "Even then when I had the most cause for it...I never touched you."

"You had a gun, Mort."

"It wasn't loaded," he spat back, defensively. He was afraid she'd shove that in his face.

"You sure?"

"Positive."

Amy sighed. "I believe you." She paced back and forth across the livingroom floor for several silent moments before speaking again. "So if it wasn't you, then who was it?"

"I don't know," Mort replied, thrown slightly off-guard that Amy was playing along. "I have no idea."

"Did some spirit or ghost possess you, all of a sudden? That's kind of what it seemed like."

"All I know is that it felt like I was asleep, the whole time. I don't remember any of what you told me. All I remember is you coming in to talk to me, sitting down on the bed, and then..."

Amy looked at him, her tired face curious but patient. "What?" she urged, softly.

"We were up against the wall, next to the bed. My hand was clasped loosely around your throat, my...I had...uhm..."

Amy nodded. "I know, I felt it," she said, saving Mort the embarrassment of confessing to her that he woke up with a raging erection pressing against the crotch of his worn jeans.

"And then you punched me and I went flying into the bedpost and passed out, shortly thereafter."

Amy sighed and crossed her arms. "And that's it?"

"That's it."

"That's -all- you can remember?"

"Yep." Mort shifted the icepack lower down on his head and winced as the pressure was lifted from the bump.

"You'd better not be lying to me, Morton Rainey. Because if you are..." Her tone was threatening and her eyes were sharp. She'd used his full name. She was obviously very angry and hungry for answers. Answers that Mort couldn't give. He hoped she wouldn't hold his ignorance of the situation against him. He wanted to know what had happened just as much if not more than she did.

"Why the hell would I lie to you, Amy? Especially about a thing like this?" He wanted to add that she was the one who'd lied to -him-, but bit his tongue at the last minute.

He looked up at her and his eyes were full of pain, and not just that of a physical nature. His desire for her to belive him was so great it hurt him almost more than the bump on the back of his head. Amy couldn't help but feel sorry for him, even though she'd technically been the victim, but then Mort had a way of making her feel that way, no matter what the situation was.

"What would you do if you were in my position, Mort?" she asked him, after a long period of silent consideration.

"I would probably get the hell out of here, snow storm be damned," he replied, somewhat reluctantly. It had been an honest answer, but he wasn't sure it had been the best.

"Is that what you think I should do?" she asked, uncrossing her arms and looking out the window, but it was too dark to see much of anything.

"No!" Mort cried, the sound of his voice surprising the both of them. He hadn't meant to sound so desperate and pathetic, but then what was he, if not that? He really didn't want to be alone, especially not now. "I mean...I really think it'd be safer for you to stay with me than try and drive, out there. It's so dark on these woodland roads...and with the snow...I just don't think it's a good idea."

"Neither do I. But I'm not convinced that staying with you is a better one."

Mort sighed. He couldn't rightly disagree with her, after what had happened...whatever had happened. He still didn't really know, and probably never would.

"I think I'm okay now, Amy," he tried to reassure her, though he was painfully aware of how ineffective his words would be. "I mean..." he continued, trying desperately to convince her that everything would be all right. "Obviously you know how to snap me out of it," he said, giving her a small smile despite the pain he felt.

"Not without seriously injuring you," she said with a note of sarcasm in her quiet voice. "Anyway," she continued, shoving her hands into her pockets and rocking back on her heels, "I think you should see somebody."

"What, you mean like a shrink? Amy, nothing like this has ever happened before."

"All the more reason for you to get it checked out," she argued. "I think...you seem to be going through another nervous breakdown." She said the last bit quietly and pursed her lips as Mort grimaced at the mention of the 'n' word. She knew how he hated it.

"I'll be fine," Mort said, though his throbbing head wildly disagreed. "What about you?" he asked, looking up at her. "Are you okay?"

She nodded, her eyes glued to the old rug beneath her feet. "Just scared, is all."

"I'm sorry." His voice was small and distant, but Amy could tell that he meant it.

And then he began to cry. It was oh so much more than a few stray teardrops sliding silently down his cheeks. He brought his knees up to his chest, covered his face with his unburdened hand and full-out bawled.

"Oh, Mort," Amy said, kneeling down to comfort him.

"I'm sorry," he rasped, his face completely obscured from her sight by his hand and unkempt hair. "I'm so sorry..."

She patted his back and whispered comforts to him but they fell on deaf ears. Amy bit her lip and knitted her brow. He was shaking so violently she was afraid he would do himself another injury. She was afraid to give in to her natural impulses to wrap her arms around him and hold him to her until he stopped crying. She didn't want him to get the wrong idea...

Oh, to hell with it.

"Come here, baby," she whispered, gathering him up in her arms as though he were a little boy who was upset about scraping his knee on the sidewalk. "Shhh," she whispered into his hair as he rocked back and forth in her arms. "It's okay, sweetie. It's okay."

Slowly but surely, Mort's shoulders stopped shaking and his sobbing subsided. He was so taken with the contact that he'd almost forgotten why he was so upset, but then the bump beneath the icepack sent a painful jolt through his head and gave him a rude reminder.

And when the last tear had fallen and Mort's nose was so stopped up he could no longer breathe through either of his nostrils, Amy let go and sat back on her heels. He didn't want her to look at him. He didn't want her to be right, but then Amy was always right...

"I'll call Dr. Thompson in the morning," he said, his voice hoarse and low.

"Okay," Amy said, hoping that he would do as he said. She was so worried about him...

"So..." Mort said, absently plucking a string from the sleeve of his tattered bathrobe. It was his favourite article of clothing, but it had definitely seen better days. But then, so had he.

"What?" Amy asked, wondering if Mort was in fact intending to go anywhere with that.

"You really kissed me, huh?"

Amy felt her cheeks turn red and somehow she managed to nod her head.

Mort chuckled and shook his head.

"Wish I could've been around for that."

Amy gave him a small smile and was relieved that he hadn't asked why she'd done it, because if he had, she wasn't entirely sure she'd have been able to give him an answer. Somehow, she knew she wasn't entirely off the hook, but for now, she felt safe in the knowledge that she had at least the rest of the night to try and think of a good answer to the question she knew was coming.

"Think you'll be able to sleep, now?" he asked, unable to meet her gaze.

Even though he wasn't looking at her, he could tell that she was nodding.

"What about you? What if you have a concussion?"

"I'll be fine, Amy," he said, rising slowly from his spot on the floor at the base of the couch. "Good night."

"Good night, Mort," she said quietly as she watched her ex-husband make his way slowly up the stairs and disappear into his bedroom. "Please be okay..." 


End file.
